


across the sea

by thatiranianphantom (FrraFee)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8149237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrraFee/pseuds/thatiranianphantom
Summary: sinking, swerving, I think I am deserving. e/e au.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting from ff.net!

He's walking home (one of the rare times he returns home) when he hears it for the first time.

He doesn't stop (he never does).

His feet don't slow, but his thoughts, oh…..they evaporate.

(He never tells anyone. Would never live it down.)

He tells himself he won't remember.

(He does).

Tells himself he'll never remember where he heard it.

(He does).

Tells himself it doesn't matter.

(Perhaps it doesn't).

* * *

As it turns out, it's a sleazy dive bar. What? He was thirsty and it was on the way home.

It's too dark to see at first, but he doesn't need to see to know how a place like this runs.

The smell hits his nose, and he winces. It smells like that party he dragged Grantaire and Courf home from once. That pungent aroma of alcohol and smoke that gave you a headache you could feel in your teeth.

He orders a beer from the bored-looking, balding man at the bar. It burns when it goes down and he remembers how he hates the taste, but Enjolras can fit in when he needs to.

It's nothing special, he sees as the smoke clears. A few tables, a flickering sign pointing to the bathroom, and a small stage with an old microphone.

* * *

 

He remembers a shadow.

That's the first thing he sees.

Her hair falls into her face, but he can see caramel skin upon closer inspection.

Red lips curve around the lyrics to some eighties power ballad, and he is somehow, inexplicably, spellbound.

Two hours pass in seconds, and suddenly she ducks offstage, as quietly as she came on.

* * *

That is how it starts.

And how it continues, night after night.

He drags Grantaire, Courf and Combeferre here once. He was going to invite Joly but that's an anxiety attack waiting to happen and he's not cleaning that up again. Combeferre eyes the dirty bar with suspicion, Grantaire flops down on a bar stool (doesn't order anything, to Enjolras' surprise) and Courf finds a pretty girl almost instantly and starts chatting her up.

When the music starts, as it always does, his eyes are glued to the stage.

She's wearing jeans tonight, he sees. Casual, and a tight black top.

He thinks he stares but he can't help it.

He stares and he feels Grantaire's eyes on him, hears his friend heave a sign and order "whatever you've got that's strong."

He should have known something was up when Courf slings an arm around his shoulders and tells him with forced casualty to walk with him.

But he certainly didn't see it coming when suddenly he's facing that girl's back, and Courf taps her on the shoulder.

And he's never seen his friend move faster then when he gives her his signature smile, asks her if she's met his friend "Enjy" and speeds away.

His face burns as the girl's eyes fall on him, but it _is_ the first time he's seen her up close.

She's younger than she appears on stage, he notices. He'd guess that under all that makeup, she's probably younger than twenty.

She smirks and he ducks his head.

_Smooth, Enjolras._

"Enjy, was it?" her voice is less rough than her singing voice, but there is a definite edge to it. Like smoke, he supposes.

"Enjolras," he mumbles. "Remind me to get better friends in the future."

She laughs. "He seems alright, but you may want to tell him that the girl he is currently hitting on has a husband who has a machete."

She sits on a stool and beckons to him to sit.

He manages to get his legs to comply, and never sees Grantaire staring at them from the bar, never sees him deflate as the girl places her hand on Enjolras' arm.

* * *

 

She is Eponine, he learns. It fits her, he doesn't quite know why, but he thinks it is probably because this tough, hard eyed girl has something so much deeper inside her.

* * *

 

He goes nearly every night, now.

Sometimes her show is the same, sometimes different.

They talk at halftime, and then at the end, without fail, he makes his way over to her, only to have her father clamp a hand down on her arm and drag her away.

She looks back at him with a look that on anyone else would be clear, but somehow seems foreign to her.

 _Help_.

* * *

He feels himself changing.

The old Enjolras would never spend almost every night at a dumpy bar just to talk to a girl.

And the old Enjolras would _never_ count it as the best part of his day.

He is torn in two, because Éponine is good. Genuinely, honestly good. Her voice soars to heights he can't even imagine, and the look on her face when she sings…it's like she's in a completely different world. And she could do so much better. She should be singing where she could get the admiration she so deserved, as opposed to getting lecherous glances from men he'd rather she be nowhere near.

And as much as he loves seeing her every day (maybe _needs_ to see her every day), he wants so much better for her.

Not that he could convince her of that.

For now, he'll just try to make her life a little easier. Her five-year-old brother, Gavroche hangs out with them now. His foster parents don't care, he says. All day he'll hang around them, and they will buy things from the café and conveniently forget them as they leave, and wouldn't it be a shame to let that food go to waste. Combeferre is teaching him to read, and the first time he read a full story to Éponine, he saw tears in her eyes. More than once, the boy has fallen asleep on Courfeyrac's lap, his face pressed into his favorite person's neck and Courf's head on the little boy's.

And Éponine, Enjolras has taken it upon himself to make sure she's safe. He slips food into her pockets, Advil on occasion, orders beers he'll never drink to make sure she has tip money. He knows she hates this, she tells him time and time again that she doesn't need him to save her, doesn't need him to "fix" her, she's doing fine on her own.

But the look he sees in her eyes as she sits in the café, her brother near her, laughing at some stupid joke Grantaire told, eyes alight, well, that's a look he'll do just about anything to keep.

* * *

He gets the idea from Courf, of all people.

(There's apparently a video of a dog pooping on a baby that he not only recorded but also seems to find patently hilarious)

The internet seems to agree, but defecating canine and unfortunately placed infant aside, the idea springs to his mind, and he flips through his phone to see if the never-used video camera is still in working order.

* * *

She never notices, and he's grateful.

Or he would be, but that handprint-shaped bruise on her wrist.

* * *

It's up before the night is up and 90% of its views are admittedly from him.

All in good time, he tells himself.

* * *

 

In good time, indeed.

He doesn't even need to filter the comments anymore.

He puts off showing her until three full days later, each day waiting in tense anticipation of her having stumbled across it herself.

He pulls her by the hand over to his computer, her protesting all the way that she's got another show in ten minutes. She tries to pull her hand away so he takes her by the waist and sits her on his lap.

Her video is already loaded, and her position affords him the ability to feel her tense.

"You recorded me?"

He nods. He may be in trouble, in hindsight.

"You did this without asking me? Why?"

He casts a look around the dumpy bar, gives a shrug.

"Because I believe in you. You're better than here, _petite_. You deserve more than this."

"Is that not for me to decide?"

"For you," he ventures. He's already taking this too far, already crossed too many of their unspoken lines.

"For you to decide, and not for your fear of your father to decide for you."

She stands, a curtain falling across her eyes, and he recognizes her closing herself off, so he takes this chance to shove the letters into her hands.

Her hair falls into her face, and she looks down at the first.

_Dear Ms. Thenardier;_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_I hope you do not view this as intrusive, but your talent has come to our attention, and we wonder if we could arrange a meeting._

_I have a feeling you have a bright future ahead of you, and I believe we could work well together._

_Alain Simcoe_

_Boubil Recording_

_London, UK_

"He wants to meet with me," she whispers.

He nods to the other letters. "He and six other companies. Thus far."

She stalks off after that but he knows he has her.

Days later, he sees the letters in her bag, well worn.

Like she has read them over and over.

Like she can't believe someone believes in her that much.

* * *

 

So naturally, he confronts her.

And naturally, she resists.

She's cleaning at the time, and her swipes of the table become furious. He's actually a little surprised she doesn't take the varnish clean off.

He tells her she could really do this; she could change her entire life. If she would just look at how many people agree about how special she is….

"You don't get it," she hisses. "This isn't something that happens to people like me. People like me aren't the type that get "noticed" out of nowhere and then swept off to live some magical life in the spotlight. People like me are…" she hesitates.

"People like me are supposed to disappear into the background."

He sweeps her into his arms and holds her, burying his nose in her hair because despite what she thinks, she won't be there forever, and he's going to memorize the scent while he's got the chance.

"Oh, Éponine," he sighs. "You couldn't be invisible if you tried."

"Look around, Enjolras. Nobody notices me."

"I do."

She looks up, and her face softens. He almost thinks he catches tears in her eyes.

"That's just it. These people, they want to take me away to a completely new world, a world you're not in. Who's going to…."

She trails off but he knows what she means.

* * *

 

He drives her to her meeting. She is quiet, contemplative. Calm, even.

He tries telling her she's going to be great, they won't know what hit them, but only gets short nods in return.

After awhile, he stops trying and they drive in silence.

He pulls up in front of the building and they sit.

Her hands smooth down her skirt and reach for the door handle.

He dares to touch her hand briefly, and her fingers brush him.

He hesitates. "You're amazing," he offers. "Truly amazing. That right there," he indicates the building. "That's your whole future. Take it."

Her head snaps away, and she's quiet, like the rest of the day.

When she reaches for the handle, he guesses she may have shut him out again.

But suddenly, she turns. Her hands come to rest on his cheeks and her lips are suddenly, wonderfully pressed against his.

She pulls away and leans her forehead to his, one hand still stroking his cheek.

"Thank you," is all she says. "Enjolras, thank you."

* * *

 

Her last day, they close the place down.

Of course, only he, the guys and Gav know it's her last day.

She's leaving the next day, leaving for a recording contract in London, and he's letting her go.

He sits, orders a beer, and watches her sing. Just like the first time.

She croons some random Beyoncé song, and he is, and always will be, spellbound.

And at the end, because apparently God is merciful, her father does not drag her out.

When there's nobody left, she offers her hand to him, and he sweeps her into his arms.

She hums softly while they dance, and he keeps this memory forever.

And when they finish, they separate.

Not a hug, or a kiss or even a handshake marks their goodbye.

He goes to the door, breathes an unintelligible "bye."

And that is how they part.

 


End file.
